Scarred(Never After #2)(66)

Smirking, I turn my attention to Simon. “Let me guess, she taught you to be valiant and brave? Honorable and strong?”

Simon scrunches up his nose. “No, she said to drink water.”

“I said to be water.” She laughs.

She picks up her tea, bringing it to her lips. My eyes zone in on her throat as she swallows the liquid, my cock springing to life when I notice the tiny cut on her bottom lip.

The memory of her flavor teases my tastebuds, and I find it almost impossible to look away from the mark, aching to split it open again, just to hear her moan as I soothe her pain with my tongue.

“Being honorable only works when both sides play by the rules.” She glances to Simon, leaning across the table. “Enemies never stick to the rules.”

Simon nods, gazing at her with adoration; a look that, until this moment, I thought was reserved only for me.

I don’t blame him for falling under her spell when even I can’t outrun it.

“That’s right.” I nod. “The trick is, little lion, to be smarter, not stronger.”

“Oh?” Sara answers instead, her lips lifting in the corner. “Is that the trick?”

My fingers tap on the table, the tip of my thumb rubbing the underside of my father’s ring. “One of many I could show you.”

Her eyes flare, lips parting.

“Milady,” the young girl at her side interrupts. “Don’t forget, we have an outing in less than an hour. Should we head back to get dressed?”

Sara’s cheeks flush as she breaks our stare, smiling over at her. “I’m ready whenever you are, Ophelia.” She turns toward Timothy. “Are you ready?”

“An outing?” Simon asks. “Can I come?”

Paul walks back from the stove, placing a plate in front of Simon, his gaze briefly locking on Timothy’s before turning away. “Simon, your mama will whoop you black and blue. You know you can’t go into town.”

His face drops. “I’m never allowed to go anywhere.”

“Never?” Sara grins down at him, cupping her hands over her mouth and whispering loudly. “One day, I’ll take you.”

Paul and I share a look, but we say nothing.

The royal bastard of Gloria Terra is the castle’s best-kept secret.

I don’t tell her the reason he doesn’t go anywhere is because no one can know he exists. That, whether we want to admit it or not, if word got out about a brown boy with the same striking eyes as the king, chaos would follow.

Or how, if my brother simply acknowledged him, Simon would be the rightful heir to the throne.





CHAPTER 37





Sara B.





This has been my first official event––besides the ball––as the king’s betrothed, and I’ve been instructed that there’s certain decorum I’m expected to maintain.

Do not stop and talk to people.

Do not leave the guards.

Do nothing other than smile and wave, cut the ribbon for the grand opening of the new medical center, allow photos to be taken, and then straight back to the castle.

And I do all of that. I follow the rules spectacularly. It isn’t until later, Timothy and all three of my ladies surrounding me, that my good intentions turn to dust. Because there’s a boy standing at the edge of the street, in torn and dirt-ridden clothes, his hair buzzed close to his head as he stares directly at me.

There’s something off about his face, although from this distance it’s difficult to see. But either way, his gaze slams into the center of my gut, and I’m turning before I can help myself.

“Timothy,” I say, keeping my eyes on the child. “Do you see that boy?”

He moves to stand next to me, looking to where I point and nodding.

“Bring him here.”

“No,” Marisol cuts in. “In and out, milady.”

My insides spit fire like a dragon, and I pull my shoulders back, walking over to her until we’re nose to nose. “You are not my master. And you do not get to tell me what I may or may not do. I’ve been very nice to you up to this point, Marisol. Don’t make me show you how cruel I can be.”

“Milady.” Ophelia steps next to us. “What Marisol means is we need to tread carefully. That boy… he… well, he doesn’t look like one of us.”

Sheina snaps her head to Ophelia at the same time as I do. “And what does he look like, Ophelia?” I hiss.

Her cheeks blossom a deep red and she turns her face toward the ground until the brim of her hat hides her eyes from my view.

“He’s deformed,” one of the guards spits. “It’s easy to see from here. Most of them are—if not physically, then mentally.”

I close my eyes to calm the raging storm brewing in my gut. “Most of who are?”

He waves his arm toward the child. “The hyenas, of course. Rebels. Whatever you want to call them.”

“He’s most likely a trap, milady,” Marisol adds, her eyes squinting as she stares at the boy.

“I’d like to speak with him.”

Nobody moves, and the longer they stand stagnant, the heavier the disappointment gets, like bricks being dropped in the center of my chest.

My heart twists. How can they be so callous?